


Numb

by tahirire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-06
Updated: 2008-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-26 04:31:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahirire/pseuds/tahirire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Sam gears up for his break for Stanford. Set to lyrics by Linkin Park.</p>
            </blockquote>





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_Tired of being what you want me to be  
Feeling so faithless lost under the surface  
Don't know what you're expecting of me  
Put under the pressure of walking in your shoes_

~*~

 

 _“It’s a spirit, alright. Carl Hanes, that sneaky bastard … ”_

Sam listed absently to the softly filtered voices coming from the living room. Dean and Dad were finishing up what Dean called the “geek” phase of hunting. Sam stared with determination at his research paper, trying just to breathe in and out, knowing what was coming next. _Just ignore them, maybe they’ll go away …_ Already Dean’s whispered replies to Dad were becoming more rapid, and they had started carrying that damned excited undertone. Sam closed his eyes and he could see the flash of anticipation in his brother’s green eyes.

 _“Okay. Go get your brother.”_

And there it was.

Sam winced. He knew better than to procrastinate, he always tried to finish his work ahead of schedule, but he’d dropped the ball on this one. It was due the next morning, and it needed a lot of work. He threw his pencil across the room in disgust. _Stupid_. His hearing focused sharply on the living room – honed in on the silence. After a moment, Dean was whispering again, and this time the excited tone was gone.

 _“Dad, listen – Sam, he’s … he’s got a big paper – he’d never say, but … couldn’t we …. just … “_

The uneasy feeling in Sam’s guts intensified at the almost pathetic, pleading sound in Dean’s voice. Shame and guilt warred for first place only for an instant, and were replaced by the all-too familiar white hot rage that Sam had learned to live with. Dean shouldn’t have to stand up for him to Dad. Dean shouldn’t have to pity him. There was a predictable pause, and Sam mouthed the words silently as they dropped from his father’s lips.

 _“Dean, go get your brother.”_

Sam smiled ruefully. One more night of hunting, one more glimpse of death and horror. One more late paper. One less chance to have a future that didn’t involve fearing for his family so strongly that for days after a hunt he’d still throw up if he thought about how things had gone; if that knife had slipped just an inch, if Dean had zigged instead of zagged, if Dad had taken just one more minute to set the grave ablaze.

They saved people, sure. But the people they saved were strangers. Maybe the way he felt was selfish, but the rest of the world didn’t know what was out there, and they slept easily enough at night. They didn’t know the truth, and they also didn’t know the Winchesters. Sam did. Sam knew his father and his brother both; knew what they were worth. _Everything_. He just didn’t think they knew themselves.

Dean appeared quietly in the doorway, an apologetic look on his face and a shrugging tilt to his shoulders. “Sammy …” He trailed off, his voice unusually hesitant and soft. They’d been here before, plenty of times, and words weren’t usually necessary.

Sam offered an attempt at a genuine smile for Dean’s benefit. Even though they both knew it was a lie, Dean smiled back, spreading his hands helplessly. “Sorry, man.”

“S’okay. Let’s just get it over with.” Sam stared for one final second at his paper. He’d have to get up early and finish it – if they were even back by then. He wished he could just stand up for himself and say _no_. He wished he had the words to explain to his father just how much this life he’d chosen was ripping him up inside.

Most of all, Sam wished he didn’t know that Dean actually agreed with Dad.

 

~*~

 

 _(Caught in the undertow just caught in the undertow)  
Every step that I take is another mistake to you  
(Caught in the undertow just caught in the undertow)_

~*~

 

John could hear Sam coming from a mile away, even before the front door slammed, and it was like he brought an entire hoard of ghosts with him into the apartment the way the temperature dropped and the tension spiked, turning the air around him to quicksilver.

Sam stalked across the room smoothly; muscles tense and face set, hooded eyes and thin lips portraying his current state quite well. He stopped short in front of John, canting his head slightly to the side and pinning his father with his stormy gaze.

John looked up – and up – into his youngest son’s face. He knew that look. _Dammit._ He wanted to stand up from the couch, step towards Sam and push him back a pace or two, show he was still in charge, no matter how tall Sam got, but he was so _tired_. Tired of this.

Wordlessly, his son held out a paper to him. John took it without looking, too caught up in the intensity of the twin hazel laser beams pinning him to the couch. Sam’s hands didn’t shake, his stance was cold, but his eyes … _What, Sammy? What did I do now?  
_

“I found that in the _trash_ this morning,” Sam accused, his voice all razor edges. Every syllable dripped venom, each letter was painfully pronounced, and John was convinced that Sam’s whisper could be heard in the next county when he continued, “What. Gives you. The right.”

John felt the spike of adrenaline all the time, more than any man he’d ever known that wasn’t a hunter, and he’d have thought he’d be used to the feel of fear by now, but turns out he was wrong. _Shit._ He clutched the paper tightly, adding new creases to the already crumpled appearance.

Tearing his eyes away from Sam’s was like severing an electric current; it didn’t make him feel better, just left him breathless with the ache of what had taken place. Through his fingers he could make out fragments of words on the permission form. _Graduation … honors …ceremony … pleased … valedict …_

 _God help me._ John knew already that there was no way out of this one. _I didn’t want you to get hurt._ He knew no matter what he said, Sam would never believe him. _I didn’t want you to know what you were gonna be missing_. He waited a fraction of a second too long to answer.

Sam’s face clouded over, and he nodded tightly, a quick jerk that said _I knew it_. “God, Dad. You’re unbelievable, you know that? Aren’t you …” John’s heart gave what may have been a painful twitch at the underlying _“…proud of me?_ ” that never came.

Sam’s hands were shaking now, and he snatched the paper back. “How can you?” Sam demanded. His eyes narrowed. “How can you care about everyone but us.”

And that did it. John came up from the couch so fast he didn’t remember moving. He was still looking up at Sam, but only slightly. He pushed all the hurt and regret aside, letting his own wounded pride do the talking.

“I suggest you never say that to me again, understand? Everything I’ve _ever_ done was for you boys. _Everything_.” There was a time in the not so distant past when the tone he was using would have straightened Sam out right away.

Apparently those times were over.

Sam stared openly at him long enough for John to realize that he had in no way won this argument, and without another word he stalked into his room and slammed the door.

John turned as well, fighting back a sudden flow of tears. _I should have told him the truth. I should have told him how proud I am._ Too late now. Sam wouldn’t want to hear it, wouldn’t want to hear anything from him. He had to breathe; he needed to get out of this place. He grabbed his worn leather jacket and strode purposefully towards the door.

Throwing it open, he almost ran into Dean in his haste to leave. Their eyes met. A small flash of worry echoed across his oldest son’s face.

“Dad?”

“I’m goin’ out.” He growled.

“You tell him?” Dean’s features radiated sympathy and understanding, but right now John wasn’t sure it was for him. He wasn’t sure he would have deserved it if it was.

“You tell him. And be packed by the time I get back. I want to clear this town by sunrise. This job won’t wait any longer, and I’ve delayed enough as it is.” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

As John stalked off the porch, he tried not to think of the position he was putting Dean in. Regrets on top of regrets, story of his life. But Sam would take the news better if it came from Dean.

After all, Sam still loved Dean.

Maybe John was a failure as a father, but at least he’d gotten that part right.

 

~*~

 _I've become so numb I can't feel you there  
I've become so tired so much more aware  
I'm becoming less all I want to do  
Is be more like me and be less like you _

~*~

 

They hadn’t even tried to find a place to stay this time, just chased the hunt across four states, following the cursed object as it moved.

Sam’s eyes strained in the dark backseat of the Impala; tried to make out the outlines of the paper he had shoved deep into the pages of the dog-eared Latin text in his hands. Cold seeped steadily in from the frost-covered windows and into the leather seats.

Dean was passed out in the front seat, and Dad was staring down the road like it had called him something as he drove. Sam ignored the flickering glances in the rearview mirror and concentrated instead on filling out the hidden paper.

It was a rash move, he knew – working on a scholarship application within two feet of his father. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Dad knew Sam was up to something, of course. But if he wasn’t going to call him on it, then Sam wasn’t going to volunteer.

Part of him wished that Dad would call him on it, just so he could tell him what he thought of having to hide what may soon be his greatest accomplishment of all time from his _family_.

But Dean was passed out in the front seat, and his breathing was finally steady, small cold puffs of air now coming at regular intervals, and he didn’t look quite as pale anymore. And the clenching vise in Sam’s stomach had loosened.

 _At least until the next time_.

Someday soon the fight with Dad was going to come, Sam knew with as much certainty as he’d ever known anything. He could feel it in his bones.

But for now, tonight, for Dean - Dad wasn’t asking, and Sam wasn’t volunteering.

 

~*~

 _Can't you see that you're smothering me  
Holding too tightly afraid to lose control  
Cause everything that you thought I would be  
Has fallen apart right in front of you_

~*~

 

Waiting for the reply to come was torture. Sam woke every morning with a nervous flutter in his stomach, and he had stopped eating breakfast in the morning and started running instead. Of course Dad took this as a sign that Sam was stepping into line. Sam for the most part was content to let him think what he wanted.

It was hard lying to Dean, though. When Sam’s diploma had come through the mail, Dean had grinned widely, slapped him on the shoulder and dragged him out for a beer.

When Dean held up his mug and said, “To freedom,” Sam clinked their glasses together, and he didn’t mention that hunting full time wasn’t the freedom he’d had in mind.

Later that night, when he lay in bed and tears welled up into his eyes at the thought of his brother’s smiling face, and what it would do to him when he told Dean the truth, he blamed it on the alcohol.

Sam had thought that graduating high school might change things, and that he could talk to Dad as an adult, that they could sit down and be reasonable. Well, maybe he hadn’t really thought that, but he’d hoped. He’d hoped so much it hurt.

Instead, things got even worse. Dad seemed to think that since Sam didn’t have to concentrate on school anymore, there was no reason not to step up his ‘other responsibilities’.

He knew how to fight, but he wasn’t strong enough. He was a good shot, but he needed to work on his accuracy. He was fast, but not faster than some of the _things out there_. He ran drills with Dean, matching his brother pace for pace until he was exhausted, muscles churning and heart pounding and the nervous flutter in his stomach threatening to drop him on the ground.

Dean thrived on the hunt, he embraced the training for himself, but Sam didn’t miss the sideways glances, green eyes ghosting over him until he wanted to tell Dean to take a picture already.

And they hunted.

They hunted constantly, and soon Sam had lost all track of time, days faded into weeks, weeks stretched into months. Any semblance of normalcy they had maintained was gone. They never stayed anywhere more than a week, they never talked to anyone but each other, and every case was top priority. Sam couldn’t close his eyes at night without seeing death and terror. Innocent people whose lives had been ripped away from them, loved ones who died screaming, they were nothing to Dad but a lead; an angle to work. Dad didn’t see them the way Sam did, he didn’t _feel_ for them.

Sam was certain this was going to destroy him.

Every slip, every mistake he’d made haunted him. His quiet calm was shattered, and all he could hear was his Dad’s voice, demanding and harsh in his mind. Maybe he never said it exactly the way Sam heard it, but the underlying messages came through loud and clear.

“ _That’s not good enough, Sam.”_

 _”You can’t hesitate, I don’t care what form it takes, you kill it, do you hear me?”_

 _”Push harder, dammit, are you trying to get yourself killed?”_

 _“Why can’t you be more like your brother.”_

Sam had tried at first, really tried. But lately his only solace had come with the thought that maybe soon he could escape all of this. Dad wasn’t the same anymore, he had become driven, obsessed. Frightening.

Sam didn’t want to leave his family. He loved them. But he couldn’t just stay and watch them chase vengeance. He couldn’t watch them tear themselves apart.

He’d never make it if he saw one of them die.

Sam checked the map every day. It would only be a few more weeks until they stopped to check the P.O. Box that they kept on hand for emergencies. Dad would kill him if he found out Sam had given out the address, but Dad was killing him anyway, inch by inch. As the time grew closer for Sam to get his answer, he began thinking about how to break the news.

He shouldn’t dare to let himself hope so much, but hope was all he had.

~*~

 

 _(Caught in the undertow just caught in the undertow)  
Every step that I take is another mistake to you  
(Caught in the undertow just caught in the undertow)  
And every second I waste is more than I can take_

 

~*~

 

Dean was cleaning guns (again), but he didn’t mind, he figured at least he’s in the motel and not out running the errands for once, although the thought of Sam driving the Impala is enough to make the protective parts of his personality stand at attention, he figured he’s alone (finally) for an hour or so, may as well try to enjoy it.

Dad was at the library and Sam was running to the next town to check their mail, and Dean wasn’t sure but he thought Sam was acting strange this morning (like, even more than usual) but he couldn’t put his finger on why, so he didn’t ask, and true to recent form, Sam didn’t offer.

Dean remembered when Sam used to tell him everything, even stupid stuff he didn’t want to know, like how if you cut open a frog it was actually really hard to find the brain, (and no shit, do frogs even _have_ brains?) and ok, maybe that was kind of a cool one but the point is, Dean can remember not too long ago when getting away from Sam was impossible, but now it’s like he looks at Sam and all he sees is a stranger.

Dean would totally be sad about it if he was, you know, a girl.

Dean set down the 12 gauge and just stared for a minute into the mirror at his reflection. He was a damn good looking guy, of course, always had been, but the last few months he hadn’t looked like himself, not in the eyes. Didn’t let Dad or Sammy know, of course, they probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway, way they’d been fighting.

It was almost worse when they weren’t fighting, because that was when the tension was so thick Dean could cut it with a knife (lame analogy, with their gig) or, it felt like he was _drowning in the air_ it was so heavy (that’s better), and when he was hunting it was the only time he could really cut loose.

Only on the last hunt, he’d used a few more bullets than necessary. And maybe he’d gone a tad over the top with that one ‘shifter, and there really was no reason for what had gone down with the idiot redneck spoiling for a fight at the bar, but Dean figured he was stressed, and if Dad and Sam wanted to deal by staring moodily at each other, then he could deal his way.

Yeah, it was definitely the eyes that looked different.

The sound of the Impala’s roar filled the parking space outside, and Dean braced himself, not knowing who was going to be coming through that door. He let out a tiny sigh of relief when he saw it was just Sam, and immediately felt guilty for thinking that way. “Hey, dork. Where’s Dad?”

Sam was just standing in the doorway, holding a letter in his giant hand like he was scared he was gonna break it, and he whispered “Still at the library,” and Dean noticed for the first time how Sam wasn’t looking him in the eyes, and he thought _what if something happened to someone we know_ and then he thought _who’d know to write us_ , and before he could stop himself he was across the room and grasping Sam by the shoulder (to get his attention, not because he was worried or anything) and trying to get his brother to look at him.

“Sammy? Somethin’ wrong?”

Sam did look at him then, and Dean couldn’t quite place that look; it was one part triumph and two parts guilt, maybe a little grief and fear thrown in for good measure, topped off by regret that formed first as a mist, and then started to slowly roll down Sam’s cheeks.

“Dean, we … I need to tell you something.” Sam said, and Dean knew, he _knew_ , that this was it, this was the thing that would either shatter the tension or bury them all underneath it.

“Yeah, ok.” Dean said, and he tried to sound reassuring, but his throat was suddenly dry and his palms were sweaty, (and how is that even possible, anyway) and he’d never been as nervous in his life.

It would take him months to remember, after everything, the way that the look on Sam’s face was only one part triumph, but at least two parts guilt.

 

~*~

 _I've become so numb I can't feel you there  
I've become so tired so much more aware  
I'm becoming less all I want to do  
Is be more like me and be less like you_

~*~

 

Sam hadn’t expected Dean to be happy, not really. Sure, Dean had said he was happy _for_ him, but the betrayed look on his brother’s face was much louder than the verbal praise he offered. He’d been putting off telling Dean the truth, and now both the shuttered look in Dean’s eyes and the sarcastic edge in his voice were making sure he paid for his mistake.

Sam would have taken it a lot more personally if he didn’t know his brother so well. Instead Sam winced internally at every barb Dean threw at him, knowing the joking and brusqueness was just Dean’s way of protecting himself when he’d been badly wounded. Sam hated it that he was the cause.

Dean didn’t think he knew, but Sam had proved to the rest of the world that he wasn’t an idiot, only his family seemed to remain oblivious to that fact, and Sam had noticed the way Dean had been acting. The way his eyes were a little too cold, the way trouble seemed to be finding him more and more often.

Sam wanted more than anything to bring Dean with him, to help get his brother away from it all. If he closed his eyes and imagined really hard, he could picture them getting an apartment and settling down; Sam would spend his time studying and get a job, maybe on campus somewhere, and Dean would throw parties at the apartment that Sam would yell at him for, and there would always be loud, obnoxious people over to visit, and maybe Dean would take up a hobby, like guitar, and he’d be popular and Sam would be in his shadow, but yeah – Sam thought he may actually kill for a life like that.

But Sam knew better than to even ask. As much as he loved Dean, and as much as he knew Dean loved him whether he ever said it or not, Sam knew one thing for sure.

Dean was a son first, and a brother second.

As long as Dad was there to override him, Dean would never stand up for what he wanted. Sam couldn’t stand watching Dean give in to Dad over and over. It was one of the reasons he had to leave. Dean would never come with him, because Dad would say ‘ _No’_. Pure and simple.

He’d been planning on waiting as long as possible to make the break, but the words his father had thrown at him had put that dream to rest. _If you leave, then you stay gone_. He’d heard the words as if he was underwater. They took time to reach him. As they registered, Sam waited for the rage to come just like it always did. But there was no fire anymore, there was nothing.

Just cold. Just pain.

For at least ten minutes after Dad had walked out and slammed the door, Sam just stood there. Everything seemed blurred. He almost didn’t realize that he wasn’t alone, that Dean was standing there too – holding his breath, afraid to break the fragile sudden silence.

But then Sam’s world snapped back into focus, and he began to move. He packed the rest of his stuff – there wasn’t much – without a word. Sam felt no hesitation as he reached for the door handle and began to turn it. He was halfway through the motion when he heard a rustle of fabric, an intake of breath, and his brother softly call his name.

“Sammy?”

He hesitated for an instant. It was now or never, he knew that. This was his one chance, his one shot to change things. If he thought about leaving Dean he’d never do it. If he let himself feel he’d break. Dean wouldn’t come with him, Dad had said _no_ and Dean wouldn’t come, he knew that. He didn’t want Dean to feel torn in two. He needed the break to be clean, for both of their sakes.

He stared at the door frame. Everything was hyper focused. Every particle of peeling paint, the sluggish noise of the ceiling fan, the soft rush of cool air from the vent overhead. Sam’s heart pounded in his chest _. It’s better this way_ , he thought. _Better if he could just hate me._

He took a deep breath, opened the door, and said, “It’s _Sam_.”

And then he was gone.

 

~*~

 _And I know  
I may end up failing too  
But I know  
You were just like me with someone disappointed in you _

~*~

 

When John returned, the house was empty. Well, quiet. Dean was there, but … not really. Dean’s green eyes glittered with unspoken emotions, but when John met his gaze, he looked resolutely away. John left it alone and headed for the kitchen. Time to break out the whiskey.

 

~

 

When Sam walked out, Dean couldn’t think of what to do next. So he settled for just sitting where he’d been standing before. Staring out the window into the grey haze of twilight, he tried to absorb the shock of what had just happened. _He didn’t even look at me_ , he thought. _He didn’t even care enough to say goodbye._

 

~

 

When Sam boarded the bus, it took all his willpower to keep from flinching away from every person that brushed up against him. The high, overstrained whine of the engine sounded like nails on a chalk-board. His pulse pounded until he could feel it in his fingertips. He was headed towards freedom at last, but without the scent of gunmetal and leather, without the deep rumble of the ’67, he knew deep down that it would never be home.

 

~*~

 

 _I've become so numb I can't feel you there  
I've become so tired so much more aware  
I'm becoming less all I want to do  
Is be more like me and be less like you_

 

~*~

Even after a full month of classes, Sam still didn’t think he’d ever get used to how big the campus was. He never got tired of the wide, open feel of it, or the way the gracefully curved arches of the buildings towered against the desert hills. Of how even in the heat the perfectly manicured lawn was always cool and soft underneath the trees as he studied.

He felt relaxed for the first time… ever. But it still wasn’t home.

Scoring a campus job had been almost too easy. Most of the kids around were from rich families and didn’t need to work, and it left plenty of openings for someone like Sam. He’d always done well in school, and he’d blended in fine in his classes, but a job was something new.

If Sam found he was having trouble fitting in, he let his training take over. He acted. He acted like he was supposed to be there and pretended he wasn’t only lying to his coworkers

He tried to forget his old life as best he could. But Sam wasn’t an idiot, and he kept thinking of all the times he’d been taught that ignorance wasn’t bliss at all. And since he wasn’t ignorant, in his case, ignoring the truth was something worse – sheer stupidity. And so he kept his knife under his pillow, and salt under the bed. He joined a Hapkido class, telling himself that it was for the extracurricular credits, and not because it made him miss his family a little less.

It was the random little things that hurt the most, like the way the guy sitting next to him in Lit always wore Metallica shirts, or the way his Hapkido instructor would beam at him and congratulate him on his speed - the way that Dad never had.

He worried about them all the time. He wondered constantly if they were alright, if they hated him, if they were even alive. He changed his cell number after the second voice mail from Bobby complaining that the three of them just needed to ‘get your heads outta your asses and _talk_ to each other.’

He knew that if something really bad happened that someone would call anyway, new number or not. It wasn’t like they didn’t know where he was.

He just didn’t know where they were.

A few months after he’d arrived at Stanford, someone did call. It was the middle of the night, and Sam didn’t recognize the number. He held the phone in his hand, frozen. He listened as it rang and felt the nausea come back full force. His hands began to shake and he knew he couldn’t answer it. He held his breath once the ringing stopped, waiting for the _beep_ that would indicate a voicemail. It never came.

It took him a week to work up the nerve to backtrack the number. The call had come from a hospital. Sam skipped his classes that day. It was too hard to concentrate when all he could do was throw up.

 

~*~

 

 _I've become so numb I can't feel you there  
I've become so tired so much more aware  
I'm becoming less all I want to do  
Is be more like me and be less like you_

 

~*~

Time went on. Even though the worry never left Sam, he found he could push it down deep enough to pretend it wasn’t there if he concentrated on other things. Slowly he began to change. The knife moved from under the pillow to join the salt, and then they both moved into the top shelf of the closet. He still paid attention to his surroundings, but he wasn’t on high alert mode all the time anymore. He studied hard and stayed focused, earning top honors in his freshman year.

That first summer, Sam met Jess. When she told him in no uncertain terms that they would be having lunch, in his mind Sam could see Dean’s smile and hear his brother’s voice say ‘ _Damn, Sammy, not bad’,_ and he found himself smiling at the thought.

Sam followed her to the cafeteria, and for the first time he let himself think maybe – just maybe – he had a real shot at a normal life after all.


End file.
